NOV. 15, 2015: Headlines – A Poem

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Attackers in Paris

‘Did Not Give Anybody a Chance

as if chance played with motive

none are chanced

when death is not feared

FEAR:

it is all that keeps us good

and goodness is relative only

to the god one is willing

to die for

this god militarized,

weaponized

expanded

personalized

assault driven

a god unknown to

civil – ization, decency

lost in three hours

of hell;

a lifetime

of blood spillage

all red being read

in black and white

newsprint echoing ancient

tales written down

the original sin

in concert with the

unconscious brain

man-made insult

the beginning of pain

the parchment of war’s genesis

held tightly in the

fists of bloodstained

armies ordered

young conscripts

avenging lives dear

motivated

by chance

motivated

by fear

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WHAT DOES NOT DISTURB

CROP OakAlley Plantat Louisiana

We make out of the quarrel with others rhetoric but the quarrel with ourselves – poetry     ~      Yeats

 

The hungry brat-god

    Squatting over a world

   Pushes his toy soldiers off to war

    After his milk and cookies

What would happen if

    The woman in his life

    Told the truth?

There are no Kings

    No Queens

    No rulers in the forest

    No language

    No plan

    No god

    Just nature

And its vaguely menacing

    March of days

    Blooming seasons in line

    With our attraction to ruin

 

STUTTERING JUSTICE

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My dream disturbing:

Grand black pianos dropping from the sky

Missing bodies frolicking in an otherwise calm, moonlit ocean

Black men still being killed with impunity

I awake Channeling E.B. White:

“I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve the world and a desire to enjoy the world. This makes it hard to plan the day.”

It is hard to plan a day when civility is aligned along

A white fence facing down the barrels

Of hatred, ignorance and a blind lady justice

Hard to enjoy a world when one does not believe

In an organized God

Armed with the biggest guns

Millions of magazines spitting volleys of pain and grief

Days of drought, drones, and death

If I believed

I could commit the supreme act of

Cowardice by putting it all in

His (not Hers?) hands

Walk away ‘enjoy the world’ in a

Disney fog of happiness

I would have around my neck

That talisman

That password

That should admit me to the club of believers

If I believed

If I believed I wouldn’t be naked

But (just the same) I would have no clothes

I know the difference – now

If I believed I would not have to scramble

In my silver rage through the

Glove of darkness

This faux life wearing the liar’s smile

Fingering the cross

Idiot grinning

At other Xanaxed smilers who wonder

Why I am so nakedly angry

And I wonder what my last words will be?

Pleas for help?

Declarations of love?

Regret?

Will it matter?

Who will be the last to hear my voice?

FANFARE FOR THE COMMON MAN

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You,

who have taken God from her forest

taken her and clothed

her in items of your choosing

Jewels and houses she would eschew.

Put a gun in her hand put her sons

in foreign lands – all

In the name of her father.

You, who have twisted her words

to create the leviathan called

modern culture.

You, who walk the street undercover of pinstripes and attaché and

a business card for proof, and privilege.

You, who cannot judge the passing smell oozing

(a fragrance?) from the carcass of your dying civilization

Yet you judge.

 Fear.

Please do.

 For someone has sallied the rope

Spanning  the crevasse between man and the super man.

Someone knows that side of the swampy abyss and

It’s folly:

You, making it yours with every sweep of arm and voice.

You, who  strive to be occupied with life’s banquet

As you jockey for position and invent

for convenience

determining closeness to your God.

Surprise! When the female of the species,

(Fear this)

with her patterned wings, rises from the swamp and

with nothing more than her sense organs

 drives you back to the craggy edges of your success.

It is she (not you) who will enact the inevitable:

extinction through natural selection.

She worries not.

Moving from host to host she will

ensure that you and your super-kindred,

in attending this banquet,

will surely

sit and starve.

God’s Cavalcade

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There is a man who lives up the road

He walks 20 miles a day for milk

Bread, cigarettes, peace

He talked a while ago

About the upcoming

War between the haves and have-nots

I wondered if I should be afraid

But that was before his son threw him

Off their porch

Breaking his arm

Explanation became evident

In the bruises peeking through

Constant self-deprecation  on

Those zero degree mornings

As he sat, my passenger, and I

The ride he prays for in winter

 And I wonder what he dreams

At night next to his heartless wife

In the trailer, in the one room

That’s not his son’s

I wonder what he has other than

Complaints about the empty wall

That used to hold the rented flat-screen

That was sold by wife and son for $100

 His type is legion

30 winters in this god-forsaken landscape

And I know creation is a joke

Free of will

Free to suffer

Blows to the sacred empire

 God loves you?

Tell this to the walking man

The thin stick of humanity

Face lined like a map going nowhere

At two miles an hour

Tell him he’s one of Jesus’ children

Take him to Rome ensconced in luxury

For his silence for

I have yet to hear him curse

Rail about his scat-littered life

This socio-diversity for god’s pleasure

This constant cavalcade of misery

 I can see it as he trudges past my porch

Hunched deep in cold tattered jackets

He is blind but for his need for milk

Bread, cigarettes, and peace

The Gospel of Our Own Destruction: Unfinished

I can give the good to God

But where to give the bad?

I walk among men and know

The devil’s

Not elsewhere to be had

If

man is made in his image

Then

God is ego, warring man

Obsessive destroyer of things

Which no woman understands

Maybe

this God by proxy

Was not the original intent

Forcing women to believe

Otherwise

Is man’s ultimate achievement

Maybe

Jesus did have a wife

From whom he sought his peace

And the age-old truth was lost;

Man’s original deceit

Praying, For the Moment

Every thing I knew 

On June 21st seemed

Verdant green and true

Fully righteous

Ripe with data turning

Nature’s analog

To late September digital

Single leaves in

Rapid descent

Falling like knowledge

Slipping behind excuses

Season, age, and disease

Where creature and god

Abide a constant

Warring for truth